Wrestling
by jmm0001
Summary: Growing up Winchester is not easy on anyone.


Wrestling

Growing up Winchester is not easy for anyone. Pre-series.

* * *

It wasn't that Sam didn't like wrestling, it was just that he didn't like getting beat all the time. Like _all_ the time. His father, of course, could tie him up and pin him down with one hand behind his back, and had done on more than one occasion. Too many questions asked, too slow in jumping to orders and, bam, down he went with the breath knocked out of him under the guise of his needing a lesson in wrestling. 

Dean was almost as bad. He was never vindictive about it, but he was four years older, and four years taller and in wrestling, that mattered. Dean was also competitive as hell, naturally gifted athletically, and bored to tears with TV and books and his sometimes sullen little brother. Dean pretended to launch unexpected attacks on him, but Sam could almost always see them coming; a light in his brother's eye, a way he had of tensing, gathering, like a bird about to lift into flight. They'd end up rolling around on the floor, sometimes usefully practicing the techniques they'd been taught, often it degenerated into mere wild kicking and cursing until Sam ended up being the one pinned helpless and immobile in his brother's grip.

Just tap out, Sammy. Most times he would, and Dean helped him up with a wrist to elbow grasp that re-established equality and good will. Sometimes he wouldn't and Sam would end up screaming inarticulate rage at the unfairness of always being younger and smaller. His father would usually give in at that point, telling him to go to bed, stop acting like a child. His brother never did. Just tap out, Sammy, I'm not going to let you go. No matter how hard Sam kicked or cried, Dean just held on, until the storm passed, hiccups faded, heartbeats slowed and Sam tapped himself free.

Sometimes Dean let Sam win, particularly as a reward for mastering a new throw or hold, as if emphasize that it did work, would work when he had to use it. Dean grinned, though, like he had still won something, and tapped out.

Until one day, working out on the hard sun-baked Texas earth behind the motel, the ground churned to choking dust by their twisting feet, sixteen year old Sam held Dean, and Dean wouldn't tap out. Sam was surprised by the sudden fury in his brother's eyes, hot and molten and never before directed at him, as Dean struggled with defeat. Just tap out, Dean.

"No."

"Dean."

"No."

"Fine."

Sam let him go, and almost instantaneously Dean flipped him over and had him in a head lock that turned his vision black around the edges for lack of oxygen.

"Never let go, Sam. Never."

Sam tapped out, and when Dean pulled him up this time, light-headed and the world spinning around them still, Sam saw that they were the same height.

It was six months before Sam managed to pin his brother again, pin him so that no matter what small movement Dean had left, there was no escape. They were both breathing hard, and self-inflicted bruises that wouldn't really bother them tomorrow were still smarting. Fury flashed again but this time Sam was ready. "Just tap out, Dean."

"No," he ground out. Sam tightened his grip, pulling his arm even tighter around his brother's shoulder. Any more and Dean's arm would dislocate. Dean's fury slipped its collar as he fought his brother for release, literally pulling no punches nor tempering his strength in any way. Sam changed holds as quickly as Dean slipped from one to another. He could only hang on, forced equally to the limits of his strength, frightened and unsure; afraid Dean would never forgive him, afraid he would hurt himself before giving in and terrified of the nameless thing inside his brother that drove him to such lengths. Minutes passed and Dean's struggles grew weaker, and the pauses to gather breath and strength longer.

"Just tap out, dude."

"Eat me."

"I'm not going to let go."

"You will. Sooner or later."

Anger flowed back into Sam's limbs, and they tightened, making Dean gasp in pain. "No. I. Won't." Thirty hard breathing seconds later, Sam's arms and legs were trembling with effort, his muscles burning and demanding release, he shook his brother like rag. "Dean!"

Dean tapped out.

There was no graceful rebounding to their feet this time, nor hands offered in support. It took minutes each for them to recover enough to get to their knees. But when they did finally stand, Sam noticed for the first time that he was the taller.

A year and a half later, Dean leaned against his car with arms crossed across his chest as Sam came walking back, bus ticket to California in his hand. He hitched his single bag with all his possessions in it on one shoulder, and offered his hand to his brother. Dean pulled him into a full body hug that they never did, and Sam's breath left him as if for good.

"Let me go, Dean." Sam could only beg forgiveness for lies that hadn't been lies at the time.

Dean tapped out of the hug, as if Sam held him instead of the other way around, and let Sam go.


End file.
